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OLD BUCKEYE 
DAYS 



In Verse By 



DARIUS EARL MASTON 




BOSTON : THE GORHAM PRESS 

TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO.. LIMITED 



Copyright, 1915. by Darius Earl Maston 



All Rights Reserved 



Yd** 7, ft* 

w^ < 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



MAY -6 1915 

©CU397909 



/ 



INSCRIBED 

To Lura, the wife of my youth, 

And to Margaret, our little daughter, 

Who have come a long way with me, 

And who, with me, have gathered 

The roses so delightfully, 

And the thorns uncomplainingly. 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Along the Little Wakatomika 13 

At Candle Lighting Time 78 

At Six Mile Dam 63 

Back to Old Coshocton 25 

Battle with Bumble, A 71 

Country Boy, The 53 

Dear Old Buckeye Days 9 

Envoy : Golden Gleams 79 

Feast of the Rigajigs 24 

Gladsome Time of Spring 38 

Going to School to Jim 18 

Grandmother's Specs 69 

Haulin' in the Hay 21 

Huntin' Tater Bugs 64 

Havin' Boils 33 

Interrupted Soliloquy, An 71 

In the Old Chimney Corner 54 

June Time 43 

Little Baker, The 73 

Little Girl's Resolution, A 74 

Miss Sent 60 

Miser's Gold, The 28 

My Poli-cee 26 

My Uncle Dan 56 

Old Chestnut Trees, The 67 

Old Conch Shell, The 32 

Old Fashioned Apple Butter 61 

Old Muskingum, The 42 

Ornery Little Jim 65 

Owl and the Crow, The 45 



CONTENTS 

Playin' on the Old Mouth-Harp 20 

Proem : Dear Old Buckeye Days 9 

Royal Combat, A. 77 

Sawdust Farm, The 53 

Sister Mary's Exclusive Tea 74 

Small Boy's Riddle, The 68 

Smiling Jim 44 

Song of Sunshine, A 40 

Strenuous Chase, A 72 

Summer Lamentation, A 61 

Thanksgiving 48 

Tracks in the Snow 30 

To the Native-Born 11 

Trip to Old Coshocton, A 57 

Turnin' the Grindstone 23 

Two Little Elves, The 35 

Uncle Dan Foggs 16 

Uncle Dan's Fairy Story 51 

Way the World Goes, The 27 

Welcome to Merry Winter, A 49 

Where They Sleep 47 

Woods in Winter, The 75 

Youthful Dream, A 73 

Youthful Hunter, A 68 



OLD BUCKEYE DAYS 



DEAR OLD BUCKEYE DAYS 

Pitched in a cadence echoing 

Sweetly, sadly, soft and low, 
In my heart a song is ringing 

Of the dear old long ago; 
As I croon it over softly, 

Gladly hum it o'er and o'er, 
Ah! it brings to me the fragrance 

Of those youthful days of yore! 

Oft I picture the old homestead, 

Nestled snug among the hills, 
Where my youth was spent in gladness, 

And I catch the old, old thrills 
Of those days of boyhood pleasure, — 

Dear old days of long ago, — 
With their fragrant summer blossoms 

And their winter's thrilling snow. 

Then there comes the song of robins, 

And the scent of orchard trees; 
Smell of apple buds and blossoms, 

And the hum of honey bees! 
And my happy heart brims over 

With its olden youthful glee 
As those joys of distant childhood 

Come a-trooping back to me! 

Now I catch, across the meadow, 
The sweet scent of clover bloom 

Like the echoing of music 
Of an old familiar tune; 

And my eyes glance down a pathway 
Where my youthful feet oft tripped 
9 



To the cool, refreshing waters 

Where my gladsome soul I dipped! 

Then another dear old pathway 

Led through fields beyond the barn 
To a cherished heap of sawdust 

Where we youngsters had a farm; 
To a tangled thicket ringing 

With the song of thrush and wren, 
Where we children played together 

Games that mimicked grown up men. 

Then when came the frosty autumn, 

How our hearts swelled with delight, 
And our laughing eyes just twinkled 

Like the minted stars of night 
As we gathered nuts for winter 

Or took in the orchard's store; 
Garnered good things for the winter 

Till we couldn't wish for more! 

Ah! those winter days were gladsome, — 

Cheerful fireside, — mother there! — 
Father in his wide-armed rocker ; — 

Romping children everywhere! 
Heart and soul just brimming over, 

Love reigned there supreme always! 
Happy, happy, hallowed treasure, 

Good old golden Buckeye days! 

So my song keeps ever ringing, 

Sweetly, sadly, soft and low; 
Loved faces ever smiling 

As they smiled long, long ago! 
I can see them all so plainly 

Shining through time's gathering haze, 
10 



And my heart keeps e'er rejoicing 
For those good old Buckeye days! 

Would I live those old days over? 

Friend, it would be hardly fair! 
But God gives to me sweet mem'ry, 

Through it do I stray back there; 
Through it do I gladly wander 

Over those old, glad, wild ways 
Of enchanted, care-free childhood, — 

Golden olden Buckeye days! 

TO THE NATIVE-BORN 

A "Buckeye" born, and proud of that, 

Ohio's a noble state! 
There may be others as good as that, 

Aye! others even as great! 
But then it is our native land, 

Our home by right of birth! 
You, born elsewhere, — you understand! — 

You love your spot of earth ! 

Grand skies may hang above your head 

As over the world you roam, 
But you'll resent the harsh word said 

Against your native home! 
Aye! you may love another land 

At the other end of the earth, 
Yet always, friend, — you understand, — 

Comes first the land of birth! 

We may pitch camp on a thousand hills, 
We may rest in a thousand plains, 

We may sail out where the sea-wind chills, 
Or where pour the torrid rains; 
II 



We may find pleasure in a foreign land, 

But still in our travel-toil 
Our hearts draw back, — you understand, — 

Back to our native soil! 

No matter where was our birth-tent, 

East, West, North or South ; 
Be it land of plenty and content, 

Or land of scant and drouth, 
Our hearts are where they cradled us, 

Wanderers, you understand, — 
Back where our mothers cradled us, 

Back in our native land! 

So, stand up, now, ye "Buckeye" born, 

Ye valiant Ohio men, 
Stand up though scattered from Bay to Horn, 

From home to Jerusalem! 
Together we'll sing of our native land, 

Songs of our old home hearth ; 
Who loves his own home will understand 

Why we love our spot of earth! 






12 






ALONG THE LITTLE WAKATOMIKA 

WAKATOMIKA, Indian name, 

But I love it jest the same, 

For in days that's long agone 

My feet strayed that stream along 

The windin', wanderin' way it took 

With my line an' fishin' hook; 

An' jest where that wayward stream 

Seemed as restful as a dream, 

Noiselessly I cast my bait 

Fer that sucker, — wait an' wait! 

Honest injun, grandes' stream 
That my eyes have ever seen! 
Had two bridges spannin' o'er 
That there stream, — an' what is more, 
They wuz covered bridges, too! — 
These are fac's I'm tellin' you! — 
One above town, one below, 
Where went traffic to and fro. 
Grandes' place fer boys to play 
Of a drizzly, rainy day! 

Sometimes wanderin' 'twixt the trees 
That swayed gently in the breeze, 
Till their tops, jest lazy-like, 
Met o'erhead an' seemed to strike 
At each other jest in fun, 
Like each loved the other one, 
Flowed the waters of this stream, 
Loiterin'-like beneath the green 
Canopy an' loath to go 
Out where sunshine sweltered so. 



13 



That wuz jest the place fer me 
When it wuz 'bout ninety-three 
In the shade ! O I could laze 
In that shade them summer days; 
An' the woodpeck's raspin' tune 
Of a summer afternoon, 
Drummin' on a holler tree, 
Wuz a pleasant thing to me; 
Er the caw of that ol' crow, 
Jest as pleasant, don't you know! 

Sometimes it went ripplin' through 
Grassy meadows, cornfields, too, 
And in pleasant autumn days, 
Follerin' all its devious ways, 
Went a dozen boys er so, 
Wadin' in that crick, you know! 
My, but we had lots of fun! 
Wade them "shatters" every one, 
An' swing on the water-gate 
Till the day grew very late. 

Er when apples wuz 'bout ripe, 

Down the weed-lined path we'd strike, 

Stealthy as the summer breeze, 

Fer ol' Houser's apple trees! 

An' a dodgin' out an' in, 

Where them iurnweeds wuz thin, 

We would steal acrost the crick, 

Where them trees wuz rather thick, 

Creep along the fence, — an' say! — 

Eat our fill most every day! 



U 



WAKATOMIKA! grandes' stream 
That my eyes have ever seen ! 
Wisht I could go back an' poke 
'Long its banks an' sort o' soak 
All these years away, an' then 
I'd be young an' free agen! 
Through them weeds I'd run an' rake 
With friend Harley, Bert an' Jake, 
Jest as we used to long ago, 
Breakin' fer that crick, you know! 

Up an' down that there ol' stream! 
Lawzy! how I like to dream 
Of them days! O I kin hear, 
In my fancy jest as clear, 
That there gurglin' of the stream 
'Neath its canopy of green! 
Woodpeck's raspin' tune also, 
An' the cawin' of the crow 
I kin hear, — an' I'll declare! 
Giandes' place of anywhere! 



15 



UNCLE DAN FOGGS 

The queerest old man is my Uncle Dan Foggs, 
He raises bronze turkeys an' chester-white hogs! 
"Of all the known 'bran's' them's the best 'uns," 

sez he, 
"They suit all my purposes jest to a *T'!" 

Many folks say he's as contrary as sin 
Jest simply because he will never begin 
Any kind of a job on a Friday, — no sir! 
Aunt Miranda sez he didn't learn it from her! 

He plants everything by the signs in the moon, 
An' "lays his corn by" the last week in June 
No matter how weedy or weakly it is ! 
He declares it is nobody's business but his! 

"No new-fangled notions in farmin'," sez he; 
"The ways of my father is proper fer me!" 
Tenaciously sticking to old-fashioned tools, 
He profoundly declares, "Some pussons is fools!" 

"The old iron plow an' revolvin' hay-rake 
Are better than any of new-fangled make! 
They'll wear enough longer, I'll wager," sez he; 
"They suited my father, of course they suit me!" 

If you wanted to hear my Uncle Dan laugh 
Jest mention to him a house with a bath, 
An' then you would hear an uncommon loud roar, 
'Twould set you a-wondering where he kept it in 
store ! 



16 



"A house with a bath! — Who ever heerd tell 
Of sech silly notions as them 'uns! — well, well! 
When I want a bath I go down to the crick! 
I bet that's what makes all them city folks sick!" 

If you mention progress along any line 
My Uncle Dan sez, "It makes my heart pine, 
Fer all o' this world is a-rushin' along 
To-wards 'Davy Jones' uncommon-lee strong!" 

"Why is it that folks keep a-rushin' so hard? 
W'y, even our parson don't pray to the Lord 
Half as long as he ust to! — I call it a shame! — 
He hurries his sermons through somewhat the same!" 

"W'y, I kin remember, when I wuz a boy, 
The long Sunday sermons wuz sech a great joy! 
The sunshine of Heaven, the terrors of hell 
Were brought out by the parson ree-markably well !" 

"If folks wuzn't right with the Lord they would 

quake ; 
W'y, even the meetin'-house often would shake 
At the powerful sermons the parson would preach ! 
His thunderin's often give sinners the 'eech'!" 

My Uncle Dan Foggs keeps contendin' for 
Them precious good times they had 'fore the war! 
He swears by the beard that covers his chin 
That moder-n times is too "movin' " fer him! 

I mentioned one time about flyin' machines; 
"Good Lord, son," he sez, "more fool Darius 

Greens ! 
I hope you don't ever take up with them things! 
If God wished us to fly he'd a made us with wings !" 

17 



"If He wished us to roll he'd a made us with 

wheels!" 
I shot back at him an' then took to my heels, 
For the wickedest look on his face quickly come, 
And his jaws they snapped shut like the crack oi 

a gun! 

Folks often have told me the contrariest man 
That they ever knew wuz my old Uncle Dan ; 
But my Aunt Miranda indignantly says, 
"He isn't contrary, he's jest sot in his ways!" 

GOING TO SCHOOL TO JIM 

James Willis,— called him "Jim!" 
Seems that name best suited him, 
Leastwise folks all called him that 
Round about where he lived at! 

Taught our school first term I went, — 

Those were happy days I spent 

Going to school to "Jim." 

It all comes back to me so clear 

Though days have stretched into many a year; 

The old round stove with its mighty roar, 

When winter winds howled round the door, 
And every seat in the room was full, 
And never a day that ever seemed dull, 
Going to school to "Jim." 

How I heard in glad content, 
And in youthful wonderment, 
Ail about the Civil War, 



18 



What Revolution was fought for, 
Indian wars of Colonies, 
And lots of other mysteries, 
Going to school to "Jim." 

Took the larger pupils through 
Harvey's grammar and the "New" 
Ray's arithmetic, — and how well 
Smaller pupils learned to spell. 
Half a hundred girls and boys 
Filled the room with studious noise, 
Going to school to "Jim." 

Sweet memories of that winter time 
Break o'er me like an olden rhyme, 
And the golden happiness 
Of the "noon" and the "recess" 
Linger still in heart of mine 
As hallowed echoes of the time 
I went to school to "Jim." 

James Willis, called him "Jim!" 

Seems that name best suited him, 

Leastwise folks all called him that 

Round about where he lived at! 

Wish I could give time a turn, 

I would enjoy another term, 

Going to school to "Jim!" 



19 



PLAYIN' ON THE OLD MOUTH-HARP 

Harley Staggers! my but he 

Could play the old mouth-harp; 

Took to it as nacher-lee 

As a bat to dark! 

Seems as though that boy could play 

From morning until night 

Without repeatin' anyway, 

And always playin' right! 

Ust to fetch his harp to school, 

My, but it was fine ; 

Didn't dast to break the rule 

By playin' all the time! 

But at recess and at noon 

Played for all he's worth, 

Hittin' up a lively tune, 

Make you dance fer mirth! 

Every evening at the store, 
Folks 'ud gather round ; 
Keep a astin' fer one more, 
Sort o' liked the sound! 
Played "My Darling Nellie Gray," 
Played the old "Horn Pipe;" 
Played "Old Dixie, Look Away," 
Played "For Freedom, Strike." 
What's the use o' tellin' all 
The tunes that he could play? 
Some 'ud make the teardrops fall, 
Some 'ud make ye gay! 



20 



One that we all liked the best 
Was "The Mocking Bird!" 
Softest, sweetest, veriest 
Best 'un ever heard! 
The real bird I'd bet my hat 
Couldn't sing it sweeter; 
True as I'm a tellin' that, 
We thought he could beat her! 

Harley Staggers! my but he 

Could play the old mouth-harp; 

Took to it as nacher-lee 

As a bat to dark! 

I kin see him yet, i-jing! 

Puffin' out his cheeks! 

Music that he'd play 'ud ring 

In yer soul fer weeks! 

HAULIN' IN THE HAY 

There is one job I like to do about as well as play, 
I like to ride our old Ben horse an' haul in shocks 

of hay! 
When my pa gets the mower out an' hitches Dick 

and Dan, 
An' sharpens up the mowin' scythe an' tells the 

hired man, 
"I guess we'll go to cuttin' grass," I know what's 

comin' then, 
An' I go out in the pasture lot an' tell the news to 

Ben! 



ai 



Or Ben he whinnies like he knows ist every word 

I say! 
We always has the mostest fun a 
Haulin' 
In 
The 
Hay! 

Sometimes the sun shines awful hot, but I don't 

care fer that, 
I wear the coolest hick'ry shirt an' broad-brimed 

Buckeye hat! 
Our hired man ist teases me, an' says I'm ist a fly, 
An' that oV Ben'll switch me off, an' that's the rea- 
son why 
Ben frisks so much! but then I know that what he 

says ain't so, 
Fer Ben he minds my "gee" an' "haw" an' my 

"gidap" an' "whoa!" 
Ol' Ben he knows the dinner-bell, an' so do I, — 

an' say! 
We has the bestest dinners when we're 
Haulin' 
In 
The 
Hay! 

One time when we was haulin' in the "doodles", 

Milt an' me, 
An' racin' an' a havin' fun, an' tryin' hard to see 
Which one could haul the mostest in before the 

stack was done, 
The awfulest thing happened to me an' nearly 

spoiled my fun! 

22 



A "doodle" I was haulin' in slipped off the rope, 

i-jack! 
I didn't know a thing about it till I got up to the 

stack, 
An' pa he ast me "Where's my hay?" an' I looked 

back, — an' say! 
Can't awful things happen when you're 
Haulin' 
In 
The 
Hay! 

TURNIN' THE GRINDSTONE 

Of all the jobs ever made fer boys 

'Bout the worst 'un that I know 

Is turnin' the grindstone, — goodness laws! 

I druther shovel snow! 

When my pa gits the old scythe out 

An' sez, "Come on an' turn," 

My lower lip it ist hangs out 

Like Mary's does when she has to churn! 

My pa he ist bears on so hard, 
An' I ist hump my back, 
An' my eyes stick out about a yard, 
An' my head ist jerks like a jumpin' jack! 
Nen I ast him, "Ain't he done?" 
An' he ist squints 'long the edge, 
An' sez, "Put a little more water on, 
It's as dull as a ol' iurn wedge!" 
An' I ist turn a-nother while, 
An' nen I turn some more, 
An' I ist kin see my pa smile, 
An' he sez, "Ist a leetle bit more!" 

23 



An' nen I take a bref er two 

An' start to turn agen, 

An' wishin' to goodness he wuz through, 

An' turnin', an' turnin', — an' nen 

My pa he sez, "I guess we're done," 

An' I don't wait t' see! 

Turnin' a grindstone ain't no fun, 

Fer a little feller like me! 

Tell you what I'm wishin' now, 
A restin' in the shade: 
Wisht I wuz a man, right now, 
Er 'at grindstones never wuz made! 

FEAST OF THE RIGAJIGS 

The Rigajigs danced around the jam pot, 
And who can tell what each Rigajig thought 
As he danced around that wonderful feast, 
Each terrible, cannibal, Rigajig beast. 

The Rigajig captain tuned up for a song, 
And all the rest hoped it wouldn't be long, 
For every last one in that Rigajig clan 
Had a watery mouth for that blackberry jam. 

E'er the song was finished there came on the scene 
A terrible human called Timothy Green, 
And calmly announced, — 'twas really absurd, — 
"My dear mother's jam-pot you must not disturb." 

"And pray, who are you that give such command 
To this great, invincible Rigajig band?" 
Said the captain, "Why, sir, we'll do as we please." 
And Timothy Green did nothing but sneeze. 

24 



''Seize him my hearties, — the impudent beast, — 
For trying to spoil this Rigajig feast; 
We'll tie him up here and proceed with our plan 
Of feasting ourselves on this blackberry jam." 

So they ate all the jam and licked the pot clean 
Right there in the presence of Timothy Green ; 
And then to mislead and to put in disgrace, 
They all wiped their hands on poor Timothy's face. 



BACK TO OLD COSHOCTON 

(Centennial, June, 191 1) 

O royal, loyal "Buckeye" men, 
Won't it be fine to go again 
Back where Muskingum has its rise, 
And slips away beneath the skies 
From the old town we highly prize, 
Back to old Coshocton? 

We who have wandered far away 
Can never learn our hearts to say 
There is another half so fair 
Found in this land, — or anwhere! 
Our longing thoughts e'er turn back there, 
Back to old Coshocton. 

Where once the Indian stealthy strayed, 
And often his rude campfire made; 
Fair city from a village grown, 
Her seeds of progress wisely sown, 
Stands now a-beckoning her own 
Back to old Coshocton. 

25 



Come, see ! she holds an open door 
And asks her stray ones back once more! 
No fairer place for one to be, 
No fairer place for one to see! 
O brother "Buckeye" come with me, 
Back to old Coshocton. 

The fret of strife oft weights us down, 
And our tired hands reach for the crown 
Of victory! — But let us say 
That all such cares we'll put away 
And go back home for one glad day, 
Back to old Coshocton. 

Fame's fairest gifts may not be ours, 
Fate may have cast us stunted flowers ; 
But, ah! my brother, better cheer 
Will ne'er be given ! — We will hear 
A gladsome welcome, never fear, 
Back to old Coshocton. 

MY POLI-CEE 

Say, old friend, I sure believe 

A laugh's the best thing to deceive 

Old trouble with, and make him know 

They ain't no welcome fer him! so 

My poli-cee is jest to laugh 

Half yer time, — an' tother half! 



26 



THE WAY THE WORLD GOES 

The world! O what does it contain? 

A little joy, 

A little pain; 

And vanities, 

And our ideal, 
And dimmer nothings that seem real ; 

And shadows here, 

And shadows there, 
And shafts of light shot through the air; 

And here a thorn 

And there a rose; 
And that's the way this old world goes! 

The world! O what does it contain? 

A little sun, 

A little rain ; 

A little love, 

A little hate 
Mixed up together and called fate! 

Some victory 

And much defeat, 
And many things so incomplete; 

And gayeties, 

And untold woes; 
And that's the way this old world goes! 



27 



THE MISER'S GOLD 

Plague take it! seems as though 

I can't help from being, — 
My wife often tells me so, — 

Always c'urte-seeing 
When a little girl goes by, 

Er a small boy either! 
Makes my old heart wonder why 

Time's such a deceiver! 

Seems 'twas but a yesterday 

Since I was a rover 
O'er youth's ways, and so, to-day, 

I'm youth's jolly lover! 
Youth and youth and youth for me, 

In my heart I fold; — 
I'm a miser, lucki-lee 

That's my hoard of gold ! 



THE OLD WOOD-PILE 

The old wood-pile! — yes, 'i-gum! 
Can't fergit it, — sweat jest run 
Off my face in solid streams; 
Yet it seems to me, — it seems, 
I'd jest like to git back there, 
With my ax up in the air, 
Swing it down with ringin' whack, 
Make the old chips fly, — 'i-jack! 
Let the old sweat run agin, 
Cuttin' wood jest like all sin! 



28 



Them wuz gool old times, an' say! 
That wuz only yistiday! 
Hungry? well, them apple pies 
Mother made 'ud set yer eyes 
Dancin' with delight at noon! — 
Dinner never come too soon! — 
Fling yer ax down at her call, 
Fairly rip yer "overhall" 
Gittin' in an' washin' up ; 
Eat jest like a hungry pup! 

Nen hang back an' hate to go 
Out where sunshine sweltered so 
Jest because, — well, jest because 
Stomach felt jest like the craws 
Of the chickens always looked 
Mother often killed and cooked. 
Nen agin because, perhaps, 
We would like to take some "nap 
After fillin' up that way! — 
Chop more wood another day! 

Gimme back the old wood-pile, 
Gimme back my mother's smile, 
Standin' in the door-way, — joys! 
Savin', "Dinner's ready, boys!" 
An' I'll take my ax an' run, 
Tackle hick'ry, beech an' gum, 
Chop, an' never mind the heat, 
Chop, an' say it's hard to beat, 
Though I didn't ust to smile 
Much at that there old wood-pile! 



29 



TRACKS IN THE SNOW 

Through a whitened field of snow 

I go, 

Making tracks; 
O'er a trackless waste of snow 

I go, 

Making tracks. 
In my heart a gladness thrills 
For the snow with pleasure fills. 
And I heed not wind that chills 

As I go 

O'er the snow, 
Dead expanse of trackless snow. 

Now the wind a-sweeping whirls 

The snow 

As I go; 
And the snow around me curls 

As I go 

Through the snow; 
And the downy, fleecy flakes 
Cover meadow-lands and brakes, 
And my clearer vision takes 

As I go 

Through the snow, 
Snow that drifts and curls. 

Now behind I peer, alas! 

At my tracks 

In the snow; 
Faint the trail I see, alas! 

Of my tracks 

In the snow; 
For o'er them the wind hath laid, 
30 



Softly as comes evening shade, 
Coverlet with white snow made; 

And my tracks 

In the snow 
Now lie buried with the grass. 

Long I pause not to regret, 

But push on 

Through the snow; 
In my heart is sweet joy yet, 

I trudge on 

Through the snow! 
Though my tracks are covered quite 
With the robes of filmy white, 
Swinging left and swinging right, 

I push on 

Through the snow 
Toward the goal my heart has set. 

Some things I cannot forget 

As I go 

Through the snow; 
Greater joy awaits me yet 

Than the glow 

Of the snow! 
Joy of warmth at journey's end, 
Joy of meeting with a friend, 
Fireside joy is at the end 

Of journey! so 

Through the snow 
I trudge on, — nor once forget! 



31 



THE OLD CONCH SHELL 

the old conch shell! O the old conch shell! 
With its resonant sound that I loved so well 
To hear floating out o'er meadow and hill, — 
Methinks I can hear the sweet sound of it still, — 
Announcing in accents so musically clear 

That dinner was ready, sweet dinner-time dear 
To my boyish heart in those balmy days 

1 now look back upon with longing gaze, 
When I worked if I had to and played if I could, 
Or wandered by stream or in pleasant wood; 

No sound could I hear that would please me as well 
As that mother made on the old conch shell. 

O the old conch shell! O the old conch shell! 
How its notes rang out in a rapturous swell, 
Blown by lips of dear mother in sweet days of yore 
As she stood in the frame of the wide-open door 
And called us all in, some from work, some from 

play, 
To the tempting noon-meal she had on display. 
And oh, such a meal! what king could enjoy 
The pleasure of it half as well as a boy? 
Bread, butter and beans, and, stacked mountain 

high, 
Mashed potatoes with cream, and dumplings or pie ; 
Cool milk from the spring, meat and cabbage as 

well! 
WTiat a feast was announced by that old conch shell ! 

O the old conch shell ! O the old conch shell ! 
How dear to my heart words never can tell! 
When harvest time came we gathered the sheaves 
Till its welcome sound was flung to the breeze, 

32 



Then back to the barn the horses we rode, 
And watered and fed them, and hastily strode 
To the kitchen and washed and slicked up our hair, 
Then seated ourselves round the table to share 
That bountiful harvest-time feast gayly spread, 
Than which to no fairer was I ever led! 
I longingly listened each day for the spell 
Of the musical tones of that old conch shell. 

O the old conch shell! O the old conch shell! 

Sweeter music athwart of my ear never fell, 

In those golden days when often I strained 

My ears for its sound when my stomach complained. 

At work or at play, in field or in barn, 

No matter what part of that busy old farm, 

The sound was quite welcome, — I'd welcome it still 

If it would but echoi o'er orchard and hill ; 

But years have flown swiftly, I listen in vain 

For mother to call me to dinner again; 

In vain do I wait for that rapturous spell 

Cast o'er me by tones of that old conch shell! 

HAVIN' BOILS 

You kin talk about enjoyment, 

'Bout yer havin' fun, an' sich, 
'Bout the monstrous satisfaction 

People find in bein' rich; 
How the ways of people 'muse you, 

How they often cause turmoils, 
But there's nothing that will equal 

Pleasures found in havin' boils. 



33 



You enjoy a look of pleasure 

And return it with a smile, 
Satisfaction has no measure 

When you're dressed in latest style; 
But I'll tell you, friend, there's nothing 

Found in sea or in the soil 
That will give the satisfaction 

You kin find jest in a boil. 

There's a deal o' satisfaction 

Found in things that's good to eat; 
You've a right to take some glory 

When you've got things lookin' neat; 
But there's nothing worth the havin' 

'Cept it cost a deal o' toil! 
Then it won't give satisfaction 

Like you'll find jest in a boil. 

You kin talk about the places 

Where a boil will feel the best, 
But we don't need to argue, 

Anywhere they'll help you rest! 
Now I'm a-goin' to tell you 

Where I'd rather have 'em come, 
And I'm sure you cannot blame me, 

It is on some other one! 



34 



THE TWO LITTLE ELVES 

Margaret was sitting in the room by herself 
When out of the wall popped an ogerish elf 
With green goggle-eyes and a quaint dimpled chin 
And a mouth that was set in a generous grin. 
Her eyes blinked hard and she opened them wide, 
She could scarcely believe that another she spied, 
Perched saucily on the bric-a-brac shelf, 
Close beside that first little ogerish elf; 
With a turned-up nose and glaring black eyes 
That kept winking and blinking and looking quite 

wise, 
He nodded his head to the first little elf 
As much as to say, 'Til run things myself!" 

So he raised up his voice in a shrill little squeak 
Which seemed to announce he was going to speak; 
Then fixing his eyes, with a right stony stare, 
On poor little Margaret sitting down there, 
He began on this wise: "I say little girl 
I want from your hair just one little curl 
To paste in my forehead where hair ought to grow, 
And tie with a nice little pink ribbon bow." 
But Margaret answered him never a word, 
She was mightily scared at what she had heard, 
For her curls were her pride, and had not been 

made 
With hot curling irons, and she was afraid 
If that little elf were once to begin 
He'd take all of her curls, — an unpardonable sin! 

Her eyes stared wide in a nameless dread 
To see that elf scratch his little bald head 
And wiggle his chin and screw up his face 
In a most uncommonly ugly grimace, 

35 



When that first little elf just sidled up near 
And whispered some words in that other elf's ear ; 
Then turning around they each shook a fist, 
And gritted their teeth as though grinding a grist 
Of something real tough and ugly to chew, 
The very worst tasted thing they ever knew. 

What Margaret thought of them nobody knows, 
She twisted her fingers and wiggled her toes, 
And out from her eyes rushed so many tears 
It set the elves twisting at each other's ears. 
"Now, there," scolded one, "you mean, ugly thing, 
You've caused her to cry when I meant her to sing! 
She never will give even one little curl 
To me or to you, — now, will you, my girl?" 
But Margaret answered him nothing though he 
Nodded and smiled at her quite pleasantly. 

"She will," cried the other, "I know she is good, 
She washes the dishes as little girls should, 
And does many things to help her mamma," 
And he laughed with a quaint little tinkling ha, ha! 
"I know you will give just one little curl 
To each of us, won't you, my dear little girl? 
For, see, our heads shine like a turned-over dish 
And one little curl is all that we wish!" 
He spread on his face such a pleasable grin 
As good intentions of folks are always set in, 
And Margaret gave him a nod and a smile, 
And answered, "Yes, sir," in the daintiest style. 

Then he began dancing and skipping in glee, 

And singing a quaint little elf melody 

His mother had taught him when he was a boy, 

About little girls who were always a joy 

To their fathers and mothers, — and little boys, too, 

36 



Who cheerfully did what they asked them to do. 
Then these little elves jumped down on the floor 
And danced on the rug on the hearthstone before 
The great chimney-place till their faces were red, 
And cut up great antics; — one stood on his head 
While the other quite nimbly hopped up and stood 

there 
On the feet that extended up into the air; 

Then turning quite over he lit on the floor 
And bounced from the rug to the knob of the door, 
And spun once around that shining door knob, 
(Which all must agree was a ticklish job!) 
Then sitting cross-legged, he took from his coat 
A queer little pipe and proceeded to smoke. 
With a hop and a skip most too sudden to see, 
That other elf jumped from the floor to the key, 
And pausing awhile, he buttoned his coat 
And leaped from the key to the blue, curling smoke 
Which went from the pipe out over the room 
With a scent like the roses that blossom in June, 
And walking across it to Margaret's chair, 
With his scissors he clipped two small ringlets of 
hair. 

"These are the curls you promised," said he, 
"To me and my brother whom yonder you see." 
Then down they both hopped to the rug on the floor 
Where they had been dancing some moments before. 
"We will never forget you, my dear little girl," 
Each one of them said as he pasted the curl 
On his forehead, "for you have granted our wish, 
And no more will our heads, like a turned-over dish, 
Glisten and gleam without sign of a hair! 
We shall always keep this little curl pasted there!" 

37 



Just then the door opened quite suddenly, and 
There was scurrying of feet back to old Elfin-Land ; 
Up the chimney they went too quick to be seen 
By Margaret's mother who spoiled the queer dream 
By saying, "Come out little lady and see 
If you cannot wash up all these dishes for me." 



GLADSOME TIME OF SPRING 

Time to gaze up in the sky 
For the wild geese going by 
On their northward journey, lo! 
Hear them "honk, honk" as they go 
Voyaging to northern seas 
Like a fleet of argosies. 
Wild ducks follow in their wake 
To their customed northern lake; 
Likewise comes the long-necked crane 
To visit his old haunts again; 
Twittering birds are on the wing, 
Earth is waking into spring. 

Down along the swollen creek 
Pussy willows dare to peep, 
For the winter king, Jack Frost, 
Nearly all his power has lost. 
Wakening season of the year 
When the very atmosphere 
Coaxes buds and flowers and bees 
Into new activities, 
Whispers through the naked wood, 
Makes it quickly understood 
Spring is here and full of zest, 
Everything is roused from rest. 

38 



Buzzards circle in the sky, 
Chicken hawks are hanging "nigh," 
"Red-heads" flit from tree to tree, 
The old guinea clacks in glee; 
Turkey gobbler struts around 
Like he owned most all the ground; 
Rooster crows just like he knew 
Summertime is almost due; 
Hogs are rooting up the "patch," 
Chickens all are on the "scratch," 
Boys rig up their "hook-and-line," 
Spring's the grandest fishing-time! 

Time the sugar trees are tapped, 
And youth's heart is all unwrapped 
From the gloom of winter days 
Into bubbling roundelays! 
Time of fields in furrows turned 
And when brush-heaps all are burned ; 
Time of shooting buds and leaves 
And of blossoms on the trees; 
Time when limpid, purling streams 
Whisper of their winter dreams! 
Ah! can any poet's rhyme 
Tell of any grander time? 
Hark, ye bards and rhymsters bold, 
Sing your songs of Love and Gold! 
I would strike my harp and sing 
Of the gladsome time of spring! 



39 



A SONG OF SUNSHINE 

Sing a song of sunshine 

And of cheery smiles; 
Don't make life a glum-time, 

Look for af terwhiles ! 
Greatest joy in life, boys, 

In what lies ahead; 
Laughing's half the strife, boys, 

Philosophers have said! 

World's a jolly place, boys, 

Take it thus and so! 
Keep a smiling face, boys, 

Everywhere you go! 
If you laugh the world laughs, 

Flings you bade your smile! 
Take Life's wine in great quaffs, 

And in jolly style! 

Ever notice how, boys, 

World's chuck full of glee? 
Farmer at the plow, boys, 

Whistles merrily! 
Mother at her sewing 

Sings a merry tune; 
Thus the world keeps going, 

Pleasantly as June ! 

Bumble in the clover 

Drones his honey-song, 
Just a jolly rover 

All the day along! 
Mocking-bird is singing 

In the cherry tree; 
Hear his glad song ringing, 

Full of Jollity! 
40 



Even business hums, boys, 

In sweet ecstacy, 
Doing up its sums, boys, 

Ever ceaselessly! 
Joy-bells clang and clatter 

Everywhere, we've tried! 
Say, boys! what's the matter 

With the sunny side? 

Sing a song of sunshine, 

And of jolly cheer, 
Making life a fun-time 

All around the year! 
Wave your hand at trouble, 

Kiss joy's rosy lips, 
Happiness will double, 

Sweet as honey-drips! 



41 



THE OLD MUSKINGUM 

Peaceful flows the old Muskingum 

Down the verdant vales, 
And its limpid, lipping waters 

Whisper witching tales; 
Tales of times when red-skinned boatman 

Deftly dipped his oar 
In the bosom of its waters, 

And wigwammed the shore. 

Cities tower where once the Red-Man 

Led the "Simple Life," 
And the shores of old Muskingum 

Ring with strenuous strife; 
Peaceful yet its sparkling waters,. 

Spanned with bridges o'er, 
In contentment still is flowing 

Seaward evermore. 



42 



JUNE TIME 

Sing a song of blossoms, 

Of roses and of June, 
When all the world is growing, 

And nature is in tune, 
Of birds and fowls a-nesting, 

Of bees upon the wing, 
Of summer showers and summer flowers, 

And trees a-blossoming. 

The heat begins to shimmer, 

The shade is not so cool, 
Youth's restless heart is longing 

To plunge in swimming pool; 
The river flows so dreamily 

Under the drooping boughs, 
And 'neath that shade there oft is made 

Love's sweetest, tenderest vows. 

This life is ever changing, 

But, hold — for we must know 
That youth must fain be loving 

Wherever youth must go; 
And when youth gives his promise, 

And love performs her part 
'Tis summertime and life is rhyme, 

And heart melts into heart. 



43 



SMILING JIM 

He was such a jolly fellow, 
Folks all called him ''Smiling Jim;" 
Allowed there wasn't much in life 
That would ever bother him; 
Said that life was not a burden, 
And if you would only smile 
All your troubles would go scooting 
In the grandest kind of style. 

He allowed that any fellow 
Held it quite within his power 
To make out of every trouble 
Just a blossom like a flower 
If he'd only just imagine 
That the sun shone every day, 
And not be forever grumbling 
'Cause the rain had wet his hay. 

And he recommended smiling 
If you got beat in a trade; 
Said that this old world of ours 
Was the best world ever made; 
Said there was no use in swearing 
If things didn't come your way: 
That was just the kind of doctrine 
He kept preaching every day. 

O he was a happy human, 
This man folks called "Smiling Jim," 
And he kept on smiling, smiling 
When real trouble troubled him; 
Through his tears he kept on smiling 
And repeating, "God knows best, 
44 



Though I'm sorry, — yet I'm happy, 
Mandy's gone to Heaven to rest." 

And he just kept on a-smiling 
Though he was left all alone 
With a half a dozen children 
In that dreary little home; 
And his faith it seemed unbounded, 
Said that God knew best for him, 
Said he would raise up his children, 
And he'd still be "Smiling Jim." 

So he smiled away his sorrow, 
Smiled away the awful gloom 
Human hearts are prone to borrow 
From the dark and silent tomb; 
Lived his life and did his duty 
By his family, — and he passed 
Over Jordan into Glory 
With a smile-wreathed face at last. 



THE OWL AND THE CROW 

An owl was perched in an old oak tree 
When a crow came by and he says, says he, 
"What are you doing up in my oak tree?" 
The owl turned his head way to one side 
And he says, says he, "I think you lied 
When you said that this is your oak tree 
For I really think it belongs to me! 
I've lived in it the whole of my life 
And raised my children, me and my wife, 
And I always thought that this old tree, 
Being my home, belonged to me!" 

45 



So Mr. Crow just scratched his head 

And cleared his throat and gravely said, 

"I've lived my life in this old wood 

And raised my children as good crows should ; 

My nest's in the top of this old tree, 

And I really think it belongs to me!" 

Quoth Mr. Owl, with a look quite wise, 
Thinking, of course, he'd hold the prize, 
"We'll go to court this very day 
Where sitteth His Honor, Mr. Blue Jay, 
And leave it to him and then you will see 
Who is the owner of this old tree!" 

"Agreed," said the crow, "we'll go at once, 
You'll soon find out you are a dunce 
To claim this tree as your very own 
And trying to rob me of my old home." 

To court they went and argued the case 

With noisy words and much grimace, 

Till the court cried out in great despair, 

"Of all the fools from anywhere 

You are the worst! Now don't you see 

The tree, of course, belongs to me! 

For I live there with Mrs. Jay, 

And there our children skip and play! 

For years and years we've had our nest 

In that old tree, and I'll be blest 

If I can see a bit of use 

Of all this noise and rank abuse! 

You both must move from this old tree 

Forthwith, and I shall go and see 

That both observe the court's decree!" 



46 



Away flew court and owl and crow, 
The court flew high, the owl flew low, 
And lumbering along sadly between 
Flew Mr. Crow with envy green. 
Lo! when they came unto the spot 
And sought the tree they found it not! 
An axman had cut down the tree, 
The stump was all that they could see! 

Court, owl and crow, in much chagrin 
Sought other quarters to live in, 
And vowed together they would share 
The woods in peace, and anywhere 
One made his home the others would 
Respect his rights as good birds should. 
And since that time, with much increase 
Of happiness, they've lived in peace. 

WHERE THEY SLEEP 

(Decoration Day) 

Come to the graves where the veterans sleep, 
Come to these beds that are narrow and deep, 
Come in all reverence, come with sweet flowers, 
Honor their memory, these heroes of ours. 
Over their heads, in the days that have flown, 
Grim-visaged war, in his thunderous tone, 
Flung his death-missiles, raised his fierce cry, 
And summoned our heroes to do and to die! 

Valiant they strove in war's rugged embrace, 
Daily they met with Death, face unto face, 
Bravely their blood to the great cause they gave 
Till in earth's bosom they found them a grave; 

47 



Many the homes that were sadly bereaved 
E'er the sharp war-sword again was ensheathed ; 
Silent to-day do those wounded hearts weep 
Over the graves where their loved ones sleep. 

Thousands there are who now sleep far away, 
Sleep where they fell in the battle array; 
Over their graces just a small, graven stone, 
Marked — Ah, how sad it is! — "Soldier Unknown;" 
There they will sleep while the years fleet away, 
Sleep till the dawn of the great Judgment Day! 
Take to their graves to-day earth's sweetest flowers, 
Honor their memory, these heroes of ours ! 

Come to the graves where the veterans sleep, 
Come to these beds that are narrow and deep, 
Come in all reverence, come with sweet flowers, 
Honor their memory, these heroes of ours; 
Honor the living ones, honor the dead, 
Soon will each living one sleep in his bed. 
Over their graves to-day let us strew flowers, 
This tribute is due to these heroes of ours! 

THANKSGIVING 

Unworthy though we mortals be, 

Ungrateful oft of Thy kind care, 
Yet kindly dost Thou help us see 

Thy providences everywhere. 

Our Father, God, we thank Thee. 

Thy lavish hand hath poured us out 
Abundant crops of fruit and grain, 

And in our hearts there is no doubt 
Whence cometh sun and gracious rain. 
Our Father, God, we thank Thee. 

48 



Our nation's strength of brawn and brain 
Is nurtured 'neath Thy gentle hand; 

For all we have of wealth and gain 
Throughout the domains of our land, 
Our Father, God, we thank Thee. 

The richest treasures of this earth 

Our outstretched hands from Thee receive; 

For love that clusters round our hearth 
And doth our aching hearts relieve, 
Our Father, God, we thank Thee. 

A WELCOME TO MERRY WINTER 

Haste on ye wintry winds and blow, 
And bring to us the white-winged snow, 
And chafe the forest's naked limbs 
With cutting blasts and biting winds; 
And stay the brooklet on his way 
To restless sea so far away; 
From frigid North, with hastening tread, 
Come, hurl the snowflakes o'er my head ; 
Mantle this earth in robes of white, 
And hide its dreary wastes from sight; 
And crown the hilltops, bare and brown, 
With your fleecy robes of snowy down; 
And heap the hollows where rabbits tread, 
And autumn leaves lie brown and dead 
Come, let your robes in silence lie 
Under the low-arched wintry sky. 

Now are the harvests gathered in, 

Bright glows the fire on the hearth within; 

Here may I nod o'er my pipe and dream 

Of things that were, and that might have been, 

While, without, you blow your chilling gale 

49 



O'er upland, glen and wooded dale, 
Chasing the squirrel to his winter home, 
And the bee to his garnered honeycomb; 
And hastening to shelter the lowing herd, 
And silencing the lingering summer-bird 
That dared to venture a longer stay 
Than the wiser ones that flew away 
When autumn's breath, to red and gold, 
Turned the leaves e'er they dropped to mould 
In their silent beds beneath the trees, 
Their dirges sung by the passing breeze. 

I loved them well, their birds and flowers, 

Those summer days, their drenching showers, 

Each drowsy little rivulet, 

And all that danced glad minuet 

Through all the days till summer waned, 

Nor aught of one have I complained. 

Like mariner brave who sails the deep 

Makes snug his craft 'gainst the wild wind's sweep, 

Have I made snug my humble home 

And cheerfully say to you, winter, come, 

And let your wind's wild minstrelsy 

Hurl forth its song triumphantly. 

Then heap the hollows where rabbits tread, 

And autumn leaves lie brown and dead, 

Come, let your robes in silence lie 

Under the low-arched, heavy sky. 



50 



UNCLE DAN'S FAIRY STORY 

"Say, Bud," said Uncle Dan one time, 

"You want to hear a yarn that's fine? 

Well, just come here and set with me 

And I'll unfold the mystery. 

'Twas long ago when I was small 

Like you, I heard a fairy call. 

He said to me, 'You little elf, 

You ain't much bigger than myself, 

But some day you will bigger grow, 

An' lots of things you'll have to know ! 

You'll have to know about the elves 

An' Rigajigs that rob the shelves 

Of jam an' pies an' cookies, too, 

An' then pretend that it was you 

That did the robbing, yes sir-ee, 

So's you can tell your boys, you see! 

You'll have to know about other things, 

There's some that screech an' some that sings; 

An' some of them have queerest names, 

An' live in woods an' fields an' lanes; 

An' some of them just hop around 

In trees, an' others on the ground! 

There's Grings and Geeks an' Goleaps, too, 

That slip around and might eat you! 

There's swifts and Mocks and long-necked Squeaks 

With jaws that clap fer weeks an' weeks 

After they've swallowed little boys. 

They might get you if you make much noise!' ' 

"I'll tell you, Bud, I got awful scared; 
I'd have run away if I had dared! 
But he looked at me with twinkling eye 
And told me not to go and cry! 

51 



An', then he hopped up close to me, 
An' says, 'I love you, yes sir-ee! 
Nothing gets the boys that's good, 
An' minds their parents as they should !' ' 

"And then he made a bow so gran' 

An' says, says he, 'Now look here, Dan, 

You jest be good an' grow up right!' 

And then he vanished out of sight! 

But right on tother side the fence, 

Where the clover bloom was very dense, 

A little wave began to pass 

Over the surface of the grass! 

And as I watched the whole field stirred, 

An' the finest music I ever heard 

Came out from under the clover; and 

I knew right there was the Fairyland! 

And while I gazed there came k'pop, 

Out of every purple clover top 

A dainty, smiling, fairy-face, 

The sweetest found in any place! 

Each fairy waved his dainty hand 

Then vanished back into Fairyland ! 

From under the bloom came a refrain, 

Soft as the drip of the summer rain. 

Faint and fainter that sweet song grew 

Till it vanished away like the morning dew, 

But I've kept the story of it for you!" 



52 



THE COUNTRY BOY 

Swift through the ironweeds, joyous soul, 

With troops of other boys, 
He hastens to the swimming-hole, 

The Mecca of his joys! 



THE SAWDUST FARM 

Land o' gracious, don't I know 

Old times can't come back? 
I can't he'p from dreamin', though, 

Of them times, i-jack! 
I was dreamin' jest to-day, 

While I rocked my chair, 
How us children used to play 

Jest like ours out there. 
Used to swing 'neath that old tree 

Out there in the lane, 
Jest a bubblin' o'er with glee! 

Wish I could again! 

Down along the old spring "drean" 

Us boys had a farm, 
Where the saw-mill used to steam 

Back of our old barn; 
Had our fields all fenced an' made 

In the sawdust pile, 
Done our farmin' in the shade, 

Grandest kind o' style! 
Milt an' Charley, Bert an' I, 

Lawzy! it was fine! 
Got a tear drop in my eye 

Dreamin' of that time. 

53 



Nothin' els we ever played 

Gave us much more fun 
Than jest farmin' in the shade 

By that little run 
'Nunder them old elm-trees! 

Grand and superfine! 
Busy as a hive o' bees 

In their honey-time! 
Plowed our fields an' planted corn, 

Sowed our oats an' rye, 
Lots o' fun fer us to farm, 

Jest like eatin' pie! 

IN THE OLD CHIMNEY CORNER 

When the frost has stripped the forest and the au- 
tumn leaves lie dead, 

And the clouds hang cold and heavy in the gray 
skies overhead, 

When the wind down in the -chimney croons a 
mournful winter song, 

And the snow sprites dance like fairies in a happy, 
joyous throng, 

And old winter is upon us then I like to doze and 
dream, 

In a pleasant retrospection, in the firelight's golden 
gleam. 

O the cozy chimney corner with its flaming fire 

aglow 
And the spacious, comfy rocker swinging gently to 

and fro 
Is a world of satisfaction, — is a luxury divine, 
That I cannot fail to relish in a manner genuine. 
O the dreams that come a-trooping, dreams of days 

of long ago, 

54 



As I muse and swing my rocker in the firelight's 
ruddy glow. 

Often in the firelight gleaming, wreathed in that 
same pleased surprise, 

Comes the face I used to worship with its laughter- 
loving eyes, 

And the years all fade, and fancy takes me back to 
that glad time 

When her lips made sweetest music, saying gently, 
'Til be thine." 

Then I turn to one beside me, — seems that she 
divines my dream, 

For her eyes, still laughter-loving, with true love- 
light glint and gleam. 

While old winter, grim and chilly, is beleaguering 
our door, 

In that cozy chimney corner where the red flames 
leap and roar, 

We join hands and go a-strolling down that sweet- 
flowered lover's lane, 

Paths we trod in youth together joyously we tread 
again ; 

Play at "sweetheart" as we used to, 'neath the shade 
and by the stream, 

And our hearts knit all the firmer as together thus 
we dream. 



55 



MY UNCLE DAN 

My Uncle Dan's a funny man, 
He knows as much as uncles can, 
An' yet he sez 'at he don't know- 
Where all them baskets full of snow 
Is kept until it's winter-time, 
An' the ol' wind begins to whine 
Around the house an' through the trees, 
An' little boys begins to sneeze! 
"I 'spect it's way up north," he sez, 
"Where's polar bears an' reindeers!" Yes 
He 'lows it must be some'rs there, 
Er some'rs els some other where! 
An' when I ast him who it was 
Shook out the snow, "My goodness laws! 
Who shakes them baskets? I don't know! 
I 'spect it's angels makes it snow! 
I 'spect they take them baskets 'round 
An' shake the snow out on the ground 
Whenever it comes winter-time." 
That's what he told me once one time! 

An' nen I ast, "who blows the wind?" 
An' Uncle Dan ist grinned and grinned; 
"Who blows the wind? You little elf, 
I 'spect 'at it jest blows itself; 
Though once I heerd that way out west 
They wus a man who didn't rest 
But jest kept turnin' a old mill 
Way up on top of a big hill, 
An' ground out wind fer everywhere 
On this here earth, jest everywhere! 
An' nen I said to Uncle Dan, 
"He must be awful old, old man, 

56 



An' don't he ever once git tired, 
An' who has got that old man hired ?" 

"My goodness, boy!" he sez to me, 
"I wisht 'at you would let me be! 
He's worked ten thousan' years fer shore, 
I 'spect he'll work ten thousan' more! 
I never heerd that he got tired, 
An' I don't know who's got him hired." 
An' nen he sez, "Clear out, you Bill!" 
When I ast him who greased that mill! 



A TRIP TO OLD COSHOCTON 

O the way to ol' Coshocton lay across the rolling 

hills, 
And 'twas broken through in places by the laughing 

little rills 
That came dancing down the meadows with a 

murmur sweet to hear 
As you traveled o'er that highway in the summer 

time of year. 

Road crept 'long beside a woodland every little 

now and then, 
An' you'd look among the tree tops, seekin' fer a 

squirrel's den; 
If you'd ketch a glimpse of something, — held yer 

breath in a suspense, 
Watchin' that ol* nimble grey-squirrel foil er in' tha 

there crooked fence. 



n 



An' you'd see jest heaps of cattle, herds of sheep an' 

squealin' hogs; 
An', perhaps you'd pass a saw-mill awful busy 

sawin' logs; 
An' you'd meet whole troops of wagons, haulin' 

every kind of load, 
As you went to ol' Coshocton 'long that crooked, 

twistin' road. 

When you passed that lonely graveyard the old 
town slipped into view; 

Didn't look much at them grave-stones, eyes had 
something else to do 

Gazin' at them mighty rivers where they silently 
joined hands, 

An' went laughin' on together to mysterious, un- 
known lands. 

Through the cracks in them old bridges you could 

ketch a glimpse below 
Of that great, wide, ripplin' water with its almost 

noiseless flow 
An' you'd wonder 'bout its deepness, seemed to be 

so very still. 
How'd it come to be a river big enough to turn that 

mill? 

When with father you went riding up the main 

street of that town; 
My! how busy your two eyes were, gazin' roun' an' 

roun' an' roun'; 
Sort o' 'fraid you would miss something, things 

all seemed so strange and new; 
Jest kept lookin' an' a-gazin' like that's all there 

was to do! 

5» 



What an awful lot of stores 'long both sides of big 
main street! 

An' to gaze in them show winders, what a wond- 
rous pleasant treat! 

An' the puffin' of that engine, pullin' that long 
string of cars 

Seemed to make a deal more racket than a dozen 
Civil Wars. 

When you got back home at evening, how your 

tongue would wag an' wag, 
Tellin' all the other children of the things you 

saw, — an' brag! 
Well, there was no end to bragging, — 'twas a great 

trip they knew well! 
And their eyes grew big with wonder at the tales 

that you could tell. 

O the years have flown so swiftly an' my hair is 
turnin' gray, 

But it seems to me 'tis hardly longer than a yester- 
day 

Since, a boy, I went with father o'er the hills to that 
ol' town, 

An' gazed wistfully in them winders as I wandered 
up an' down. 

Joys of joys! to be a youngster, how my heart 

harks back to then, 
When the fires of youth burned brightly, — wisht I 

could grow young agen ! 
Since I can't, why, in my fancy, often o'er that way 

I go 
To the town of ol' Coshocton, — such a pleasant trip, 

you know! 

59 



MISS SENT 

Wunst I put a letter in the post, 

Addressed to cousin John; 
I bought a reg'lar two-cent stamp 

An' stuck 'er tight thereon! 
I addressed it plain so's all could read, 

The state wuz Arkansaw; 
The name wuz John, — just Lawyer John, 

A man that knows the law! 

I stuck the stamp clost to the name 

So's every one could see, 
An' writ my name on tother side 

So's he'd know it wuz from me! 
"I told him that we wuz all well, 

An' fer to answer quick 
An' tell me how his folks wuz, 

Er if anyone wus sick. 

I waited long but got no word 

From cousin Lawyer John; 
I thought he surely must be dead, 

Er pulled up stakes an' gone! 
One day I went down to the town, 

An' to the post I went; 
There wuz a letter there fer me, 

An' marked: "Returned, MIS-SENT." 

I wondered who that Miss Sent wuz, 

I didn't write to her; 
It made me mad; I wondered what 

My letter wus sent back fer. 
I never have found out yet 

Who that Miss Sent wuz, 
Ner why my letter to John came back, 

But I spose 'twas jest BECAUSE! 
60 



A SUMMER LAMENTATION 

Wisht them flies 'ud let me be, 
I'm so sleepy I can't see, 
Jest's I git in the edge of a doze 
A blamed ol' fly lights on my nose, 
An' jest waltzes up an' down, 
An' then hops up on my bald crown; 
Shoo him off and' it appears 
He takes a fancy fer my ears; 
Walks aroun' the edge of them, 
Hops off quick, then on agen! 

Drat their pictures anyway, 

Pesterin' roun' here every day; 

Can't never git no decent rest; — 

Flies are sech a drated pest; — 

Take my cheer out in the shade, 

Seems that's where them flies is made, 

Fer I don't git settled down 

'Fore a thousan's buzzin' roun'! 

Fightin' seems to do no good! — 

Wisht they'd all die! — wisht they would! 



OLD FASHIONED APPLE BUTTER 

Out in the yard by a pile of wood 
Each autumn the old brass kettle stood 
In a great iron ring with spreading legs 
To receive the cider from barrels and kegs, 
And apples, too, when winds would mutter, 
And mother made the apple butter! 



61 



Beneath was kindled a roaring fire, 

The apples were stacked in pans near by her ; 

She boiled the cider and stirred and stirred 

In golden apples, nor ever erred, 

But let them stew and steam and sputter 

Into good old-fashioned apple butter! 

Sometimes the smoke would smart my eyes 
But I would gaze at the autumn skies 
To rest them some, and dream and dream 
Of winter days when it would seem 
So sweet and good, — too sweet to utter, — 
To have good bread with apple butter! 

We had to gather and pare and core 
Till that old kettle would hold no more! 
And then we'd watch it stew and steam 
Into a rich brown-golden sheen, 
And raise, and lift, explode and splutter 
Into good old-fashioned apple butter! 

Then it was stowed away in jars, 
On the cellar shelf, — my lucky stars! — 
In neatest rows, our winter's hoard, 
(There were seven of us at home to board!) 
And our eagerness often made us stutter 
When we asked for bread with apple butter! 



62 



AT SIX-MILE DAM 

Oh, loved Walhonding! grand old stream! 

I often glimpse thee in my dream 

Of youthful days when, with feet bare, 

And heart devoid of nagging care, 

A fisher-lad, with pole and can, 

I hied me to old Six-Mile-Dam, 

And fished thy waters time on time, 

And felt that joy supreme was mine! 

No rod and reel of fancy make, 

No minnows, but just worms for bait! 

I angled not for fancy game, 

Content to hook the common strain! — 

A shining "chub," sometimes a "cat," 

And if, perchance, a bass, ah! that 

My expectations far surpassed 

And set my pulses beating fast! 

Sometimes astride a "riffle" rock 
Awaiting the exciting shock 
To travel up my line and pole 
And thrill each recess of my soul, 
I'd catch the mirrored, upward glance 
Of my own face as it would dance 
The romping ripples, — and I'd see 
The eager look that was on me! 

Oh, luxury! my heart found calm 
In songs of stream at Six-Mile-Dam 
That echoed back from shore to shore 
Where limpid waters tumbled o'er 
That roaring dam and danced away 
In laughing rings the livelong day! 

6 3 



My baited hook there oft I flung 

And bathed my soul in songs you sung! 

Those tranquil days of youth I find 
Forever pictured in my mind; 
Forever green those banks I strayed, 
Loitering along in sun and shade 
By old Walhonding's waters fine, 
With "sapling" pole and packthread line! 
Oh, luxury! to find that calm 
And fish again at Six-Mile-Dam! 

HUNTIN' TATER BUGS 

Huntin' tater bugs, oh, my! awful when it's hot! 
Back jest aches till I could cry, an' that tater lot 
Seems as big as all out doors, never can get through 
Druther do a dozen chores, honest, wouldn't you, 
Than to hunt one little row crost that pesky patch? 
Druther shovel tons of snow sure as the ol' scratch! 

Father always says, "Don't miss even one small bug, 
Fer jest lookey here at this; it'll make ye shrug 
Up yer shoulders, yes sir-ee, this beech stick I 'low 
Ought to help yer eyes to see, — don't ye loaf none 

now!" 
Never told dad what I thought, didn't dast to, gee! 
Knowed fer sure what I'd a caught 'sides tater 

bugs, you see! 

Seems like every other day father says, "Now Will- 

yum 
You an' Joe hunt bugs to-day, 'spect there's twenty 

million!" 
Doggone them ol' tater bugs, don't see why they 



grow! 



64 



I know lots of better bugs: ants an' "tumbles" — 

oh! 
Druther see a million ants, er a dozen "tumbles" 
Than one striped tater bug 'at gives dad the grum- 
bles! 



ORNERY LITTLE JIM 

Lazy, ornery little Jim! 

Is he? well, now, let's begin 

And check him up once just to see 

If he's the boy he ought to be! — 

Mischievous, — into every thing! 

At layin' plots he is a king! 

Twist the dog's tail, chase the cat; 

Stone the turkeys! Yes sir, that 

There boy the rooster chucks 

In the pond among the ducks! 

Says he ought to learn to swim ! 

'Lows he'll teach the trick to him! 

Souse the kittens in the slop, 

Tease the toads till they can't hop! 

Robs the birds' nests! Bless my soul, 

Once he burned two tons of coal; 

Set the old coal house a-fire 

Just to tease his aunt Mariar! 

Why, that ornery little "snipe" 

Steals his grand dad's old clay pipe, 

Smokes it, too, then teases him 

By slippin' some gunpowder in 

The bottom an* then fills the top 

With tobacco so, k'pop, 

The pipe explodes while grand dad smokes,- 

And all such dangerous kind o' jokes! 

65 



Plugged a hornet's nest up once, 
Thought he did, the little dunce, 
Took a saw and cut the limb 
And then lugged the blame thing in 
The parlor! — missionary meetin' there! 
Scat my cats! now, I'll declare 
That was soon some "swell" affair! 
Mother Jones kin purt-nigh swear! 
Humps and bumps on heads and cheeks, 
And memories that "stung" fer weeks! 
One poor "heathen" them folks "blest" 
On that day above the rest! 

At evening time poor Jim I led 
Out into the wagon shed! 
He looked at me with pleading eyes, 
And then he took me by surprise! 
"Say, pap," Jim he says to me, 
"Ain't I like you used to be? 
Gran 'dad told my uncle Linn 
You used to be just like your Jim 
When you was 'long about his size!" 
Well, sir, there before my eyes 
Plain as daylight I could see 
The kind of boy I used to be! 
Lazy, ornery little Jim! 
No sir! I'll stick up fer him! 
He's just the boy he ought to be, 
Just the kind / used to be! 



66 



THE OLD CHESTNUT TREES 

When the frost cracks open the chestnut burs, 
In the heart of youth an uneasiness stirs; 
Irresistible longing is filling his breast 
To be off and away and soothe his unrest 
Under the trees where the nuts rattle down 
And lie hidden 'neath leaves of frost-bitten brown. 

And happy is he when chores are all done. 
And he's climbing the hill where sitteth the sun 
On the crest in first splendor of autumnal day; 
And crisp is the grass where his feet mark the way 
He takes through the frost, while deftly he shuts 
Other pleasures all out, — he is going for nuts! 

What matter if shoes without stockings he wears, 
And clothing is generously sprinkled with tears 
The wind can sift through, — a hat with no brim : 
Small troubles are these and no bother to him! 
With conscience as free as the air that he breathes, 
He is going for nuts to the old chestnut trees! 

O it's over the hills to the old chestnut trees, 
Tingling with life in the crisp autumn breeze; 
Bright as the sunshine, laughing as rills, 
Heart filled with gladness until it spills 
Over in showers like the nuts rattling down 
Where he rakes in the leaves of frost-bitten brown. 

Raking and singing and calling in glee 
To comrades who're equally as happy as he, 
Who would not envy him, who would not be 
Comrade of his 'neath the old chestnut tree? 

67 



A YOUTHFUL HUNTER 

Wunst our ol' Dock an' me 

Tracked a rabbit, yes sir-ee, 

Wite in a stone pile! 

An' I ist digged wite after him, 

An' digged an digged 'way down in, 

An' our ol' Dock he digged some, too, 

On'y he couldn't ever dig fru 

Them ol' hard stones wif his toe-nail! 

An', sir, I ist got it by the tail 

Wite in that stone pile! 

But my han's wuz ist so freezy 

Its tail slipped out uv 'em ist too easy! 

THE SMALL BOY'S RIDDLE 

Who knows the place where Santa Claus lives? 

That's what I'd like to know! 
And where does he get all the toys he gives, 

And why does he love us so? 

They say he has no girls or boys 

Of just his really own; 
And that's the reason he 'stributes toys 

In every one else's home. 

Mother says he's the jolliest man 

That ever was, I guess! 
And about as big as Uncle Dan, 

And most as good, I guess! 

I'd like to see old Santa Claus, 
And where he lives, — wouldn't you? 

And watch him make Christmas, — goodness laws! 
And hitch up his reindeers, too! 

68 



I'd like to have just one good look 

At this jolly Christmas man 
And see if that's him in my picture book, 

Or if he looks like Uncle Dan. 

GRANDMOTHER'S SPECS 

Plague take it! where's my specs? 
Aggravatin' 'nough to vex 
The very soul outen me! 
Alius loosin' them you see 
Jest when I want 'em very wust! 
'F I's a man I'd learned to cust 
Long ago about them specs! 

Wisht I had them blame' ol' specs! 
Mary sez that it reflec's 
On the clearness uv my mind, — 
I don't think she's very kind 
To be sayin' things like that! — 
Wunder where them specs is at 
Anyhow! where is them specs! 

Curiousest thing where them specs 

Ever got to, an' the nex' 

Thing I know I'll mislay 

This here letter from I-ow-a! 

Reckon it's from brother John, 

Mebbe he's a comin' on 

T' see me! — Where is them specs! 



69 



Mary, he'p me fin' my specs 
An' I'll promise you the nex' 
Time I'll jest put 'em where 
I kin find 'em! — I'll declare 
It ain't often I forgit 
Where I put 'em, now, is it? 
Wisht I had them blame' ol' specs! 

Curious how my eyes objec's 
To my readin' 'ithout my specs! 
Guess I'll open it anyway, — 
I'll run 'crost 'em yet to-day! — 
Mebbe I kin make out what 
Brother John's a talkin' 'bout 
'Ithout them blame' ol' specs! 

Didn't ust to use no specs 
Fer to read the fines' tex'! 
I'll declare, why I kin see 
Every letter, plain as kin be! 
An' it is from brother John ! 
Sez he is a-comin' on! 
I'm a readin' ithout my specs! 

I'm a readin' 'ithout my specs! 

What'llI bedoin'nex'? 

Gettin' young agen, I guess! — 

Why, — why, — the good Lord bless 

My soul! — I've got 'em on! 

I won't tell Mary, fer she'd take on 

Jest awful! — Blame' them ol' specs! 



70 



AN INTERRUPTED SOLILOQUY 

My toe is stubbed an' my back's all sore, 
An' I ain't a goin' to the crick no more, 
'Cause ever-ee time I go down there 
I git hurted an' purt-nigh swear! 
The big boys "duck" me when we swim 
Till I'm most afraid to ever go in. 
I like to wade an' splatter an' splash, 
An' throw in sticks fer our ol' Dash 
To swim in after an' fetch right out, 
But I ain't a goin' no more 'ithout 
I jest can't he'p it !— Jimmi-nee krout! 
You goin' to the crick? I jest come out, 
But I'll go with you,— the water's fine, 
I kin beat you in I bet a dime! 

A BATTLE WITH BUMBLE 

Wunst Charley an' me fit bumblebees 
Along the fence 'nunder some trees; 
We ist took bushes with lots of leaves, 
An' fit an' fit them bumblebees! 
An' brother Bert wuz watchin' us, 
An' whoopin' an' hollerin' an' makin' fuss, 
An' settin' on the top fence rail 
A clappin' his han's an' hollerin , bail 
Right in an' lick 'em out ^ 
'Fore they know what you're about! 
Till a bumblebee hit 'im above the eye, 
An' he fell back'ards into the rye, 
An' yelped an' howled an' up an' run 
A good bit faster'n "kingdom come," 
Through the rye an' up the lane, 
A cryin' fer mother to ease the pain. 

71 



Nen when Charley an' me got there 

There wuz soda all over that big bump where 

That bumblebee stinged him, an' mother said 

'Tuz a turrible bump on his little head! 

An' on'y one of his eyes wuz awake, 

An' that bump ist looked like a frosted cake! 

A STRENUOUS CHASE 

I climbed a mountain wunst, I did, 

A huntin' fer a katydid 
'At hollered jest as it come dark 

Right out in our chicken park. 

I went crost the brook, I did, 

Lookin' fer that katydid; 
Brook jest run close to the park, 

An' I wuzn't 'fraid if 'twuz big dark. 

Wunst I fell down, runnin' fast 
To where I heerd him holler last; 

Didn't hurt me much, an' nen 
I jest got up an' run agen! 

I got to see him wunst, I did, 
An' nen he must a went an' hid, 

Cause when I looked he wuzn't there, 
An' I jest knowed he'd gone somewhere. 

I wuz up a mountain, wuzn't I ? 

Way up much as two miles high! 
'Cause I wuz in our orchard patch 

Clean on top, — an' had to scratch 
Jest like everything, I did, 

An' nen didn't ketch that katydid! 
72 



A YOUTHFUL DREAM 

I'm bin dreamin' 'bout somefin, 
But I ain't a goin' to tell; — 

It's about my new playmate, 
An' her name is NELL! 

I'm jest bin dreamin' awful 
Hard, — now, can't you guess? 

I druther have her fer playmate 
Than my cousin BESS! 

I ain't goin' to tell what I dreamed, 

Cause 'f I did you'd know 
'At we're goin' 't git married 

In a year er so! 

THE LITTLE BAKER 

What did the little girl do, 
An' her brother laughed an' helped her, too? 
She ist made cakes an' crinkled pies 
'Thout any 'east to make 'em rise; 
She rolled 'em out wif her dainty han's, 
An' wuzn't bothered wif ifs er an's, 
She knowed they'd bake an' be ist right, 
An' her little eyes ist shined so bright! 
How'd she do it, you want to know? 
She ist made 'em out uv mud-pie-dough, 
An' put 'em out in the sun to bake! 
Things like that ain't hard to make! 



73 



A LITTLE GIRL'S RESOLUTION 

When I get big like my Pa is 
I'm goin' to have a farm like his; 
An' I'll raise horses an' cows an' goats, 
An' wheat an' rye an' corn an' oats, — 
Oh, no! — I mean, — I'm a girl, — but I'll 
Marry a man what'll farm that style! 



SISTER MARY'S EXCLUSIVE TEA 

Wunst my sister Mary she 

Had a great big tea party: 

There wuz Sarah an' Kate an' cousin Sue, 

An' Esther an' Jane an' Jennie, too; 

And O so many I most forget, 

Though Mary's a talkin' about it yet! 

An' I wuz as mad as I could be 

'Cause sister Mary didn't invite me! 

An' I ist cried real hard — I did, 

An' I think Mary's the meanest kid! 

But muvver said, "Jack, don't you care," 

An' gived me some jam right out o' where 

She gived Mary some for her 'sclusive tea! 

An' nobody wuz any tickled-er 'n me! 



74 



THE WOODS IN WINTER 

The grim old wood is naked and the wind moans 

through the trees, 
And the leaves lie damp and heavy, buried from the 

winter breeze 
By the snow, which, heaped in hollows and spread 

out o'er the ground, 
Lends a silence grim and lonesome to the land- 
scape all around. 
Sheeted white is every brush-heap, snug beneath 

which there may hide 
Timid, meek-eyed Mr. Rabbit, sought by hungry 

hunting tribe; 
And the underbrush and wood-weeds rustle restless 

in the air, 
While old winter's desolation spreads around them 

everywhere. 

What is that? A row of dimples in the surface of 

the snow! 
Ah! I look a little closer and I cannot help but 

know 
It is but the tracks of Reynard, — record of the way 

he took 
Through the wood and o'er the meadow, to or 

from some chicken-coop; 
And I listen, half expecting I will catch the distant 

sound 
Of a horde of hounds pursuing, racing madly o'er the 

ground ; 
But they come not, and the silence 'neath the trees 

would be intense 
But for drumming of a pheasant just beyond that 

old rail fence. 

75 



Snug beneath a jutting rock-ledge, hanging o'er 

that silent stream, 
Dark and quiet, unassuming, much used doorway 

may be seen; 
And a pathway leading thereto, trod each day by 

some sly mink, 
To and from his forage hunting, — quite secure he 

seems to think! 
But a little way out yonder, by some artful trapper 

set, 
On a spot that seems well chosen, in the faith, "I'll 

get him yet," 
Is a "dead-fall" nicely baited, and I know the 

mink's snug home, 
Chosen with his keenest instinct, is not known to 

me alone. 

In that hollow where the streamlet danced in happy 

trance of song 
In the summer, now is silence, — icebound all its 

way along! — 
And the violets and asters that in summer blossomed 

there 
Silent in their beds are sleeping, dreaming of the 

summer air; 
Beech and dogwood, oak and ash-tree stretch their 

naked arms above, 
Shorn of all their summer tresses which the sum- 
mer breezes love; 
And the wood-bird's chirp sounds lonesome as he 

flits from tree to tree; 
Ah! the winter wood is lonesome, yet it hath a 

charm for me! 



7 6 



A ROYAL COMBAT 

Boreas and King Sol one day fell out, 
And I will tell you what it was all about; 
Each one of them wanted to have Us own way, 
And neither would mind what the other would say. 

Boreas declared it was time to blow 
The North-Clouds down and scatter snow, 
And paint things white and bind things fast, 
And blow the cutting, wintry blast. 

King Sol admitted the weather was fine, 
And had been so for a good long time; 
"But look," quoth he, "the leaves still smile, 
And winter's not due for a good long while." 

Now both were stubborn, and sure they were right, 
And each lay awake the half the next night 
Concocting plans for a battle next day, 
And feeling quite sure he would have his own way. 

Boreas rose early next morn to begin, 
And was blowing a gale, to King Sol's chagrin, 
As over the hilltops he peeped with his eyes, 
And hurriedly glanced at the lowering skies. 

Then the battle was on and raged the day through, 
There was sunshine and clouds, it rained and it 

blew ; 
King Sol and Boreas in stubborn array, 
For earth-folks below, made a horrible day. 



77 



King Sol remarked as he slipped off to bed, 
And Boreas concurred in all that he said: 
" 'Twas a day to be sure folks below would re- 
member 
As being unique in the month of September." 

AT CANDLE LIGHTING TIME 

At evening when our chores were done, 
And far above us, one by one, 
The stars peeped out and shadows gray 
Stole o'er the world, oh, brothers, say! 
Can any grander place e'er be 
Than where we clustered, you and "me." 
At candle lighting time? 

As full as April is of showers 
That full our youth of pleasant hours; 
And though, to-day, I'm far away 
My fond heart often goes to play 
At that grand place, — and, oh, I see 
Our old home as it used to be 
At candle lighting time! 

Don't you remember how we "ust" 
To watch the chickens go to roost 
As we stood about the open door, 
While across the dusk there floated o'er, 
From Frye's big woods a fox-hound's howl, 
Or the lonesome cry of an old "hoot" owl 
At candle lighting time? 

Then when we rested from our play 
And told the doings of the day, 
And talked of all we hoped to do, 
How mother laughed, and father, too, 

78 



Because, — well, just because, I guess 
We bubbled so with happiness 
At candle lighting time! 

And then sometimes they told us tales 
Of hunting bears or catching whales, 
Or read to us of Robin Hood 
And taught us why boys should be good. 
And then they'd say, just after prayers, 
"Good night," as we all trooped up-stairs 
At candle lighting time! 

ENVOY 

GOLDEN GLEAMS 

Across the years come the Golden Gleams 
Of bygone days, like rippling streams 
That wander through the pleasant ways 
With echoings of sweet yesterdays — 
Sweet yesterdays when flowers and trees, 
And singing birds and humming bees 
Were joyous things to the hearts of us, 
And we questioned not why things were thus, 
But only lived to enjoy them all, — 
The cricket's chirr and the wild bird's call, 
And the evening's sun seen through the mist 
Of sleepy clouds tinged with amethyst. 
Across the years as we view these scenes 
They are become sweet Golden Gleams. 

Golden Gleams of the yesterday, — 
We can see them all in glad array ; 
How our hearts hark back to the sweet delight 
Of those far scenes when the hours were bright; 

79 



Back to the old home with mother there, 

While on our lips is a half-formed prayer 

That we might walk in the old yard-gate 

And up the path as the day grows late: 

O how we would leap up the path once more 

If mother were waiting us at the door; 

And how we would answer her gladsome smile 

As she rained down kisses, pile on pile, 

Just as she used to, long ago it seems! 

And so they come — these Golden Gleams! 

O these precious Golden Gleams 

Are a sweet solace it ever seems; 

And sweeter still as the years go by 

Do they become, and our heart's low cry 

Is ever a wish that Time might give 

Just a few such days for us to live 

Over again those sweetest hours 

Of summer-time among the flowers. 

Only in fancy can we backward go 

To that glimmering time of the long ago 

And wander about, as we used to do, 

O'er fondest scenes, and through and through 

Our childhood hours, — and, oh! these dreams 

Of childhood are sweet Golden Gleams! 



80 



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